


"Pursue thy conquest, love!"

by Janyss



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-24
Updated: 2019-07-24
Packaged: 2020-07-17 22:44:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 666
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19964455
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Janyss/pseuds/Janyss
Summary: At a baroque concert. Music helps you realise, sometimes...





	"Pursue thy conquest, love!"

**Author's Note:**

  * For [isafil](https://archiveofourown.org/users/isafil/gifts), [Vulpesmellifera](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vulpesmellifera/gifts).



> The idea came after hearing pieces by Henry Purcell, whom Mycroft certainly loves much (for his art, of course, but also for his link with power!). "I attempt..." comes from the opera Indian Queen, and "Pursue..." is from Dido and Aeneas.

Mycroft had an unusual sensation of uneasiness and couldn't know why, which, of course, didn't help. And yet, he was very happy to be there, under the impressive dome of St Paul's cathedral, listening to a programme of 17th century baroque songs remarkably performed by an excellent choir and highly-skilled musicians. He usually enjoyed much the colourful music of this time, an inheritage among many others of what he considered a great time not only for England, but also for Europe. Indeed, the programme included Italian and French artists like Monteverdi or Lully, and of course a fair amount of pieces by Purcell, whom Mycroft praised so much. 

Actually, Mycroft had to be honest to himself: he perfectly knew the origin of his unusual feeling. A few rows in front of him, the Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade was sitting with a woman he was talking to now and then. Just before sitting, Lestrade had introduced her like some superior who wanted a plus one for the concert. However, Mycroft couldn't help deducing the policeman's body language, trying to convince himself that was just routine observation, which gave him no sign of any romantic involvement.

A wave of applauses caught Mycroft out of his reverie on the couple. A soprano, a tenor and a cello player were about to began performing an excerpt of Indian Queen.

"I attempt from love sickness to fly..."

The last syllable was extended and the spread of this word in the empty space struck Mycroft in the heart, as the previous ones -"love sickness"... -began making sense in him. 

"...in vain,  
Since I am myself my own fever and pain."

At the moment, he knew. He knew he hadn't observed Greg and his neighbour just out of training. He knew he wanted an answer.

"No more -no more- now, fond heart, with pride no more swell.  
Thou canst not raise forces enough to rebel..."

No, he couldn't deny it anymore. The echo between the soprano and the tenor, the cello supporting the voices, answering each others, brought a kind of light in front of his eyes. For months -years?- he had tried to repress desire and feelings for this extraordinary man, who had always been there for his brother and him, despite all the moments when they had belittled him out of their sharp tongue and misplaced pride.

"I attempt from love's sickness to fly..."

The syllable travelling again in the cathedral and in his soul made him consider things in another way, though: why would the DI show any interest in him? Gregory had helped, but never had any word letting think it was out of something else than friendship, or even simple respect of duties. 

"...in vain,  
Since I am myself my own fever and pain."

Mycroft was quite sure he would have to go on acting like before with these feelings he was now completely aware of.

"For love has more power and less mercy than fate,  
To make us seek ruin and love those that hate.  
I attempt from love's sickness to fly in vain,   
Since I am myself my own fever and pain."

The audience burst into applauses, as Mycroft tried to make peace with his decision. But as the acclamations reached a peak and asked for another song, he saw Greg turning back to him and give him a look, too intense just to be friendly, too long just to be a waving goodbye. The soprano began another song.

"Pursue thy conquest, love..."

Mycroft didn't listen, yet vaguely remembering the lyrics were about what eyes said that words couldn't, and let himself invaded by the joy of the melody. "Why not, after all?...". 

"Pursue thy conquest, pursue thy conquest,  
pursue thy conquest, love!"

Again, the applauses flowed into the cathedral, and Mycroft decided he would wait Gregory, ask for a minute of his time, invite him on a proper date. Another baroque music concert with so many colourful songs about letting love spread and conquer, probably.


End file.
